


Friday Morning Story

by Siria



Series: Nantucket AU [65]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-26
Updated: 2008-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings for Rodney start slow—shuffling to the kitchen table for a breakfast that consists of coffee, coffee, more coffee, and a bowl of cereal consumed with more enthusiasm than grace, milk dribbling down his chin—and go slower still on the days when John's feeling particularly energetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday Morning Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cate for reading through. For Aesc; a wee placeholder, until her _actual_ birthday gift is finally ready.

Mornings for Rodney start slow—shuffling to the kitchen table for a breakfast that consists of coffee, coffee, more coffee, and a bowl of cereal consumed with more enthusiasm than grace, milk dribbling down his chin—and go slower still on the days when John's feeling particularly energetic. This is one of the days that turns Rodney protectively sloth-like: John's on one of his housekeeping kicks—the ebb and flow of clutter and empty pizza boxes in the house having reached such a hide tide that not even they can ignore it—and he's been cleaning since seven.

John is up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen, moving in circles around the living room, all while humming along to the stereo that was recreating the sound of Johnny Cash, live at Folsom Prison. There are stacks of newspapers by the door, waiting to be dropped off at the recycling facility, and Rodney's decided against making any eye contact with John. If he does, he'll be lost: either cajoled into doing housework (Rodney doesn't hold with housework, except on one of those odd occasions when one of them falls sick, and bacteria and viruses demand that the house be fumigated) or forced into laughter.

It's not that there's anything funny about the prospect of having to fold laundry. It's just that. You know. His hot, ex-military boyfriend is wandering around the house wearing nothing more than flip flops, jeans hanging low over blue-striped boxers pulled too high, and yellow rubber gloves. Rodney's tempted to find his camera, but he remembers what happens the last time they had an outbreak of revenge postings on their Flickr accounts.

By the time Rodney dumps his cereal bowl into the sink and wanders into the living room—scratching absently at his belly, because oh, cereal and cold milk is delicious and possibly they will get roast beef sandwiches from Something Natural for lunch—in search of his second-favourite laptop, the whole first floor has been cleaned. Even the beer's been lined up in neat rows in the fridge, the sight of which just made Rodney shake his head—he'd suggest John get laid, but he's pretty damn sure that's not the problem.

He finds his laptop—it's been put into its sleeve and on top of the desk, though John knows Rodney never works there, not when the couch is nearby; the psychosis must be at its height—and settles down to work his way through the most pressing contents of his inbox and his RSS feeds. While he reads Sam's surface-polite dissection of Kavanagh's latest embarrassment in _Annalen der Physik_, John passes in and out with, in succession, a mop and bucket, three cardboard boxes, furniture polish, a hula hoop, an industrial size bottle of bleach.

None of that is too unusual in this household, but Rodney does pause in his typing to look up when John wanders past with a shampoo bottle clasped in one be-gloved hand, a brush in the other, and— "We own a shower cap?" Rodney squints up at the thing covering John's head. It's blue, with polka dots.

"Cash," John says grimly, avoiding the question with the skill born of years spent living together.

"What?"

"Cash. Needs a b-a-t-h."

Rodney blinks. "But it's not October yet!"

"There was an... incident." John waggles one yellow hand by way of not-quite explanation.

Rodney looks over at the back door nervously; John may not have said the actual word, but he's not sure that necessarily makes a difference. Cash's love for all things smelly and rotten is equalled only by his loathing for the B-word. "He's not going to be happy."

John lifts his chin, trying to look stoic. "It'll be fine, Rodney. It's just a bath."

"You're a 42 year old war veteran with special ops skills, and you've got a shower cap on your head," Rodney points out with what he thinks is a tone of great kindness.

"He just... shakes himself a little, after," John says. "It's just water." He looks like the dictionary definition of 'loins, girding'. It's an expression Rodney's never really understood until that moment; however John's doing it—mentally, Rodney thinks, with the force of his scrunching eyebrows—his loins are definitely being girded.

"The last time," Rodney says, setting his laptop onto the coffee table, "Ronon wanted to know if we were filming a re-enactment of _Titanic_."

John pouts. "I still don't think I look like Kate Winslet."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Iceberg, right ahead," he mutters—and it's so not his fault he knows some of the lines: that was the summer Jeannie nursed a not-so-hidden passion for Leonardo di Caprio.

"I am perfectly capable," John says, the line of his back straight, every fibre of him radiating wounded dignity, "of washing my own dog."

He heads out the door, and Rodney sits back on the couch, rests his hands on the curve of his belly, and mentally counts off the seconds as they pass: keeps track of the time it takes to hear the tin rattle which means John is retrieving the bath from beneath the porch; to hear the frantic scratch of claws on wood as Cash hears that always-loathed sound and tries to make a break for it; to hear a yelp, a muffled curse, John's betrayed sigh of _seriously, buddy, sewage?_

It takes even less time than Rodney thought it would, so he knows he's got to work quickly; when he hears the mournful yip which means that Cash has been sequestered in the tub and is suffering the indignity of shampoo lather, Rodney sneaks over to the cupboard in the hallway. He figures, if John is in for a drenching anyway, the question of degrees isn't really going to be a pressing one, and the Super Soaker hasn't been getting much use of late.

Cash, it turns out, likes this method of getting clean a whole lot better.


End file.
